Things to be Grateful For
by Aisalynn
Summary: Post Abandon All Hope. A week after the disaster that was Carthage, Sam stands in a holiday decorated supermarket, struggling to find something to be grateful for. Thanksgiving fic.


**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this story. They're all Kripke's, I just play with them a bit. **

**A/N: A little late to post a Thanksgiving fic, but I wrote this like a month ago. Takes place a week after Abandon All Hope. **

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They were in a Walmart when Sam remembered, shopping for toothpaste and shaving cream and a few cheap packets of black and gray t-shirts to replace the ones they'd had to throw away, too blood stained or ripped up to even consider wearing them anymore. Theywere in Wallmart and he looked around at the brightly colored decorations, at the sale specials for turkey and ham, the stacks of pre-made rolls and canned cranberries, and wondered how he could have forgotten.

It used to be his favorite holiday. He would count down the days once November began, buying into all the "holiday season" commercials and would excitedly watch, despite Dean's distaste, every family aimed special that they could get on the crappy motel TV's, staying up past nine even on Sundays--a school day--just so he could make sure that yes, the TV family did resolve all their problems and sit down together at the end to their perfectly made feast of roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, candied yams and pumpkin pie.

Dean would laugh at him, call him a girl and bitch about wanting to watch the horror flick on the other channel, but Sam didn't care. Every year he'd watch those movies, happily color in the paper decorations they had the students do at school, and beg Dad to stop hunting, to just stay home, with them, and eat turkey.

Like a normal family.

Dad didn't always stay, but those times that he did, when they would settle down in their hotel with their deli turkey sandwiches, or head down to the nearest diner for a helping of turkey and noodles and cherry pie, those were enough to solidify Thanksgiving as his favorite day of the year.

Now, standing in the large aisle that separated laundry detergent from the frozen foods section, staring at the display table of pumpkin and cherry pies, apple spice rolls and banana nut bread, Sam could only think that it'd been exactly one week. One week since Carthage, one week since their hope of putting an end to the whole Apocalypse was dashed to the ground.

One week since Jo and Ellen's deaths.

He wondered, as he made his way through the crowd of last minute shoppers to the men's clothing aisles, how the Harvelle women used to celebrate the holiday. He could imagine them at The Roadhouse, surrounded by tired and weary hunters, those who had no where else to go for the holiday, no one else to go to. Ellen might lead a toast to friends and family gone, pour a free drink for a hunter who looked like he needed it, remain silent about what day it was to those who needed that. Or maybe they had closed the bar early, sitting down in the back for a traditional turkey dinner, giving Jo a bit of the normality her father's choices in life had taken away from her.

He tried not to think about how, if things had gone well last week, he might have found out exactly how they liked to celebrate.

By the time Sam was a teenager he had grown out of his love for Thanksgiving--too many years he couldn't convince Dad to ignore the hunt and stay home--but funnily enough, Dean had taken up his enthusiasm for it. The year he'd left Stanford Dean had tried to talk him into doing something for the day, but it had been less than a month after Jess, and his mind was stuck on the year before, how he'd gone home to her family, to her brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews and mom and dad, all bright smiles and warm welcome and above all else, ignorant of the darker things in the world, the things that could take a person away from the comfort and love of one's family forever. He could still remembered the press of her mother's arms as she hugged him at the funeral, the murmured invitation to still come for dinner that year, the smell of her shampoo, sweet and fruity and exactly the kind that Jess used.

"Come on Sammy," his brother had wheedled, peering over his shoulder as he drove. "It's an entire holiday dedicated to stuffing yourself full with delicious food. What's not to like?"

Sam didn't mention that the point of the holiday was about the _thanks_, not the food, nor did he lecture Dean on the origins of the day, on pilgrims and Native Americans and how what is portrayed in the media as a beautiful meeting of two worlds was actually the beginning of years of suppression and persecution of an entire race of people, all leading to such horrors as the Trail of Tears.

Instead he'd dragged his head away from it's customary position against the window, face schooled into a flat, bored expression as he said, "Thanksgiving signifies the beginning of holiday season, which has more suicides than any other time of the year."

Dean had snapped his mouth shut, focused on the road and didn't mention the holiday again. Sam didn't care. Besides that one time with Jess, he hadn't celebrated Thanksgiving since he was a kid. Since he was twelve, in fact.

When Sam was twelve years old they'd nearly set their hotel room on fire. It was another year that Dad had gone on a hunt rather than stay home. He'd promised that he would be back in time, that the hunt would only take three or four days at most, but by the time the last Thursday of the month came he'd already been gone seven. Sam had sulked, burying himself in his school books and refusing even to watch the cheesy, family specials that his brother hated so much and Dean, sixteen years old, had taken it upon himself to give Sam the Thanksgiving he'd always wanted.

Their room had an old, broken down gas stove, but the oven didn't work. That was fine, Dean had stated, he didn't know how to roast a turkey anyway, but deep frying, yeah, that he thought he could handle. He managed to procure from somewhere a large boiling pot with a lid, and spent most of their food money on a turkey small enough for two, a sack of potatoes, bread, and a bottle of cooking oil.

He'd lit the stove, cranked the gas up almost as high as it could go and dumped the whole bottle of oil into the pot. Once it was boiling he'd held the turkey above the pot, thawed out and guts free ("Ew, Dean that's disgusting. You're pulling it's _neck_ out." "You're such a wimp Sammy, I've seen worst things on a hunt.") and despite Sam's worried looks, dropped the bird right in.

It was like an explosion.

The oil sizzled and popped as it met with the moisture in the turkey meat, overflowing and splashing out onto the burner below the pot. Dean screamed as the boiling oil hit his skin and Sam echoed him, taking one look at the flames that shot up on the stove and running to the bathroom, dumping out the ice bucket and thrusting it under the faucet.

It was lucky their room was near the office, that the motel manager had heard their screams and came bursting in, taking one look at the situation and running back for the fire extinguisher under the desk. When the smoke and fire had cleared they were huddled together on the far bed, Dean sobbing over his red, blistering hands and Sam trying his best to calm him while wiping away his own tears. The manager had asked if their father was there, and when answered in the negative, had driven them to the emergency room himself. They'd spent the rest of the holiday in the ER, Dean fading in and out of sleep on a hospital bed, hazy and doped up on pain killers, Sam curled up against Dean's side, guilt ridden and miserable.

When told what happened, the manager's wife had felt sorry for them, so the next day she invited them into their apartment at the back of the motel and reheated all the leftovers from her own Thanksgiving dinner. There was turkey and stuffing, mashed potatoes and yams, flaky biscuits from a can and even some pumpkin pie. Dean had sat across from Sam at the table, still a little loopy from the pain medicine and with hands wrapped up so thick in gauze that he could barely hold a fork. Sam couldn't help but think about how pissed Dad would be that Dean wouldn't be able to hold a knife or a gun for weeks, but Dean had just smiled at him, wide and sincere, if a little drugged, and said, "Hey, Sammy. Look's like you got your traditional Thanksgiving after all."

That was fourteen years ago, and Sam and Dean hadn't celebrated a Thanksgiving together since.

Sam blinked down at the packages of cotton t-shirts in his hands and took a deep breath. He tossed them into the cart (Dean always made fun of him for using a cart. He preferred to stalk through the store uninhibited, but he always ended up juggling too many items and looking ridiculous, glaring at the smirk Sam would send his way.) and pushed it out of the clothes section and towards the food, maneuvering through the crowd of people to get to the deli in the back. Once there he ordered a pound of sliced turkey, then circled back to the alcohol aisle to pick up a six pack of beer. He made his way to the front of the store, picking up bread, mayonnaise, lettuce and an onion as he went. Finally, he stopped at the dessert display in the center aisle, grabbing a pumpkin pie and placing it carefully in the cart with the rest of the food.

Dean met him at the check out, balancing in his arms the toothpaste and shaving cream he'd gone after, plus a bottle of mouthwash, a package of throw away razors and two new toothbrushes. His brows furrowed when he caught sight of Sam's cart.

"What's all this?" he asked, the corners of his mouth turned down in a frown as he looked at the food items.

Sam leaned forward on the cart. "It's Thanksgiving." He tried to say it as nonchalantly as possible, like it was no big deal, like the last time they'd had a Thanksgiving wasn't over a decade ago and had ended up in a trip to the hospital.

But Dean's frown just turned into a full on scowl, meeting Sam's eyes as he ground out a bitter, "And what do we have to be thankful for?"

The muscles in Dean's face were tight with anger and Sam once again felt keenly the loss of last week, the empty spaces where two friends used to fill, the burden of two more lives on their shoulders. But he remembered the dopey smile on Dean's face fourteen yeas ago, remembered the way his wrapped, clumsy hands had fumbled with the fork, the way Dean had placed those hands on his twelve year old shoulders before he'd gone to buy the turkey and muttered, "It's okay Sammy. We'll still have Thanksgiving. Just you and me, okay? And it'll be great, I promise."

Sam took a deep breath and stood up straight, meeting Dean's scowl head on as he answered him. "You're alive. I'm alive. Neither one of us are angel suits at the moment, and you're not in Hell." Sure, this wasn't the first Thanksgiving that had passed since Dean was dragged from Hell, but neither one of them had been in the mindset to be thankful for _anything_ last year, and they both knew it.

Dean's scowl had softened but he still looked reluctant. "Besides," Sam told him, pushing the cart past him and into the end of the line, "I got pie."

The corners of Dean's mouth twitched and Sam knew he had won. His brother shrugged and followed Sam to the line, tossing his items into the cart. "If there's one thing to be goddamn grateful for," he smirked, "it's pie."

Sam grinned back at him. "Damn straight."


End file.
